Facts, Less Facts, Craziness

1. Last year, I singlehandedly drove from the west to the east coast. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been deployed three days earlier to Iraq and I had to get home somehow. So with a broken toe, I struggled up and down the three flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out appliances, furniture, and all the useless junk we had acquired over our three months of occupancy. John had already left and I was responsible to fit what I could in the car. Once I was all packed, I slept at a friend's apartment for the night and hit the road early next morning.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. Washington and Idaho were dull and went by in a flash, but Montana was next and long. There was no way I was slipping through that one til the next day. I stayed in a lodge by the interstate and simply drank my whiskey, watching The Happening, and drifted to sleep.
What day was it? What time was it? I had no clues. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming, landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, so finding a place to sleep was tough. However, I did manage to find one hotel with a very obsessive-compulsive owner named Dave. I ended up repeating the activities of the previous night in this flop joint, wasting away on Jimmy Beam and orange soda.
Competing with motorcycle fanatics for the road, the next day started off slowly and agitatedly. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was pretty much slapped in the face. I wasn't ready for Chicago just yet. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but most likely, provoking one. Out of Illinois, I was tired, lights were blurring, and my neck was stiff mess. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Oh, baby..." It was three in the morning and my eyelids were counting down dreamland. I found out I had just drive from South Dakota to Ohio in one day. I pulled over and slept in the car for three hours, then "up and at 'em" I made it to my destination, Philadelphia.



2. Last year, I single-handedly drove from the Washington state to Philadelphia. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been deployed just the day earlier to Iraq and I had to get home somehow. So with a broken foot, I struggled up and down the three flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out appliances, furniture, and all the useless junk we had acquired over our only one month of occupancy. Before John left, he hadn’t helped me at all with the packing and demanded that I fit what I could in the car. Once I was all packed, I slept at a girlfriend's apartment for two nights eating junk food and complaining about men. But the morning had arrived for me to leave, and I said my many good-byes and hit the road.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. The interstate in Washington and Idaho was surrounded by patterned trees and I drove them in a trance, but Montana was desolate and there was no way I was slipping through that one till the next day. I stayed in the Thunderbird Lodge by the road and talked for hours with a strange man I‘d met. He had asked me if I had known where to get some weed. After sharing a drink with him, he went back to his room and kept drinking, watching HBO.
What day was it? What time was it? I had no clues. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, so finding a place to sleep was tough, especially when I realized my front tire was flat. The Triple A guy came and like a savior, fixed my way home and found me a hotel room. It was a small place owned by a very obsessive-compulsive man who handed me a rag and said, “Use that to wash with, then throw it away.” I ended up not washing and falling asleep, grateful to be in this flop joint, instead of wasting away on Jim Beam and orange soda in a park somewhere.
The next day, there were motorcyclists everywhere, rows upon rows. They didn’t care for anyone with a full-size vehicle and weaved in and out of traffic ingloriously. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was pretty much slapped in the face. It was Chicago, almost as bad as New York City. There were construction signs with speed limits of 45mph but the majority of cars were doing eighty. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but most likely in fact, provoking one. Finally out of Illinois, headlights became blurry in my blood-shot vision, and my neck was a stiff as a board. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Oh, baby..." It was five in the morning and my eyelids were counting down dreamland before, I found a parking lot in Ohio to pull over in. With my car completely stuffed, I had to figure out a way to comfortably sleep. So I opened the driver’s window and laid sideways on all my junk, hanging my feet out. It would have been such a sight to see.
Two hours later, the sun was piercing through my windshield and sleep became impossible. And just a few more hours later, I had driven the entire windy Pennsylvania Turnpike to my destination at last.

3. Last year, I single-handedly drove from the Washington state to Philadelphia. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been sent to jail for ripping off my skirt in public and pushing me down. I had to get home somehow. So with a broken foot and bruised up back, I struggled up and down the fifty-five flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out a piano, an elephant, and everything we used for our circus business. Once I was all packed, I stayed in the nearby shelter for battered women for a month licking my wounds and hiding from the world. It was the morning the sky cried with me, I knew I should get going and move on with my life.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. My hand trembled on the wheel as I steered towards Away and Further Away. The interstate in Washington and Idaho was surrounded by patterned trees and the incessant flashing of the sun provoked my epilepsy, so I had to stop many times and have a seizure. Luckily, Montana was desolate and trees were scarce. I stayed in the Hilton Montana by the road and talked for hours with a strange man I‘d met on the indoor waterslides. He had asked me if I had known where to get some weed. I said, “No, but I have something better.” After sharing a drink with him, we went back to my room and hit the crack pipe all night.

What day was it? What time was it? Where are my clothes? My elephant had been towed and I had no clue where I was. I just knew I should start driving east. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, and all the hotels wore the “no vacancy” sign. Just great, I thought. To add salt to my wounds, my front tire was flat. I tried to hold the tears back but that just made them spill over and some strange motorcyclists stopped to see what was wrong. They offered to let me stay in their room and to call Triple A to come tow the car. I accepted and the four of us, jumped into the Jacuzzi in their room to ease the pains of the day. I fell asleep in the warm water and woke up in the clinic. Apparently, I had almost drowned and they had to pump my stomach because I had consumed too much chlorine. The Triple A guy came to the hospital and said the car was fixed and that I should be going because a raving mob of vampires was after my blood.
The next day, motorcycles were everywhere, in front of me, on my tail, on the top of my car; there was even a midget cycling under my engine. They didn’t care for anyone with a full-size vehicle and weaved in and out of traffic obnoxiously. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was running low on gas, so I stopped at a pump and realized I was in Chicago. The clerks treated me rudely and called me “white girl” and wouldn’t except my “evil white man money”, so I stole the gas and left . The speed limit was 25mph but the majority of cars were doing 120, as if they were on the Audobon. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but instead, I caused a pile up. I got out of the car and hijacked another, lit a spliff and made it out of that nightmare. Finally out of Illinois, headlights became blurry in my blood-shot vision, and my neck had morphed into a piece of plywood, it was so stiff. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Can’t wait to hit that bong. Oh, baby..." It was five in the morning and the pot fumes found me sleepy so I found a parking lot in Ohio and pulled over. With my car completely stuffed, I had to figure out a way to comfortably sleep. I found a bench at a McDonald’s and laid down on its cold, red plastic till I was startled by a meteor that had struck earth only four feet away. “Man, can’t a girl sleep in peace?”
My car was missing; I guess I had forgotten to take my keys out. At least I had my stash. Some transvestites saw the baggy in my hand and said if I hit them up, they’d hit me up. So I gave them my load, and they dropped me off in druggy paradise, Philadelphia.